


Moving In, Moving On

by a_nonny_moose



Series: My AU [20]
Category: Markiplier Egos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-12 08:26:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11733324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_nonny_moose/pseuds/a_nonny_moose
Summary: The Egos are getting settled at the office, and Dr. Iplier finds an old friend.





	Moving In, Moving On

Dr. Iplier lifted the last box onto its shelf and sighed, stretching his back. It had been a week since Mark had approached them about moving into the office, about doing Markiplier TV. The filming was going amazingly, in his opinion-- the moving, not so much. 

Voices echoed down the hall, through his open door:

"Okay, now move it to the left. To the-- No, to the LEFT. LEFT."

"Are you referring to my left, or your left?"

With a sigh, Dr. Iplier looked around his room before going to help the others. His room was small, but divided by a few curtains, it would make an adequate clinic. 

He poked his head into the living room to find Google holding an armchair, uncertain, and Wilford on the verge of ripping his hair out. 

"Hello, Doctor," Google said, setting the chair down with a _thump_. 

"Er, hello." It was still a bit unreal, seeing the other Egos all the time. They all had the same face, same voice. Google, being the only robot, was one of the more eerie figments. 

"Hey, Doc!" Chair placement forgotten, Wilford turned to him, beaming. "D'you want to help me hang some lights?"

"I--" He really didn't want to be alone in a room with Warfstache. He really, really needed the use of all of his limbs. 

"Great!" Wilford took him by the arm, hurrying them both out of the room. Google's eyes flashed behind them, and the Doctor gave him a hasty, apologetic smile as the door swung shut. 

"So, how're you settling in?" Wilford tucked his hand around the Doctor's shoulders, steering them towards the makeshift studio. 

"Just great," Dr. Iplier said, stumbling a little on the carpet. The hallway between the Egos' rooms was long, giving ample distance between each person. Given the time he'd spent with Dark, years ago, he figured it was a good thing. 

"Good, good." Wilford wiggled his mustache restlessly, and Dr. Iplier found himself noting the way that Wilford's attention bounced from one thing to another, the hyperactivity that shook his fingers and twirled his mustache. Given enough time, maybe he could convince Wilford to take medication and make life easier for the rest of them. 

They'd reached the studio, and as Wilford pushed the door open, the Doctor had a second to process how much bigger it was than his room, before--

"DOC!"

" _Oof_."

He was pulled into an aggressive hug by an Ego in a suit, nearly bowling him over. 

Dr. Iplier staggered. "D-Dark?" No, his hair was parted the wrong way, and he had glasses. 

The new figment let go of him, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Bim!" he exclaimed, extending a hand, fingers wiggling. "Bim Trimmer, game-show host extraordinaire, favorite television personality, and--"

"How're those... lights... going?" Wilford piped up, almost stern, from behind the Doctor. 

Bim's face fell a little, and he withdrew his hand before Dr. Iplier could shake it. "I put the stage lights up, but..." he pouted a little. "The other ones aren't my job, I have a script to write!"

Wilford stepped forward to sling an arm around Bim, as if they'd known each other for years, rather than a week. "Now, Trimmer, lets not forget who's in the spotlight here--" With the blink of an eye, Wilford was walking Bim around a corner of the room, leaving the Doctor to look around in vague worry. 

The studio was beautiful, lights and cameras in every corner, a greenscreen, even a recording booth off to one side. As Dr. Iplier looked around, trying to ignore Bim and Wilford's raised voices, he found that the studio seemed to wobble with every step he took. Wilford's magic, then-- the equivalent of hastily-painted cardboard. 

While the space was something to envy, Dr. Iplier smiled to himself at the thought that Wilford was just as limited as he was. They were all still figments, after all. 

"Ah, Doc!" Bim poked his head around the corner. "Um, Will and I are having a bit of a problem, could you, maybe, come back... later?" He was embarrassed, but firm, and the Doctor smiled a little. Bim, he'd already decided, was one of the more likable Egos. 

"I'd love to see your next recording session, Bim," he said, meeting Bim's eyes with a wink. "Don't let Warfstache get you down."

With a chuckle at Bim's squeaked thanks, Dr. Iplier wandered back out into the hallway.

This seemed like the start of something great. He grinned ear to ear, looking around at the building, footsteps muffled. There had been so many different Egos, some only appearing in one or two videos before fading. His smile dropped a little, remembering. So many faded figments, forgotten. He'd met a few of them, stumbling into his clinic with their last breaths. He was sure there were more-- It was sad, how fast an idea could live and die. Some of them had even been friends. 

Dr. Iplier stepped further down the hallways, wondering if Dark would be willing to revisit their... friendship? Acquaintance? They'd known each other when Dark was still hiding in an apartment under Mark's, when he still wore jeans and black shirts and a scowl. That apartment had seen too much, the Doctor thought to himself, chuckling. Too many late nights, too many fights between him, Dark, and Wilford. He'd left that apartment in anger far too often, seeking the quiet of a coffee shop or friends cabin. 

Ah, the cabin. Candle-lit, always smelling of ink and blood. Comforting, in a way. This new office was too sharp, too bright by comparison. Dr. Iplier took a moment to remember the Author, still wondering if he'd faded, or was still out there, writing away. Maybe the Author would move in with them, if Mark had found him. Maybe the Doctor would go visit. 

Dr. Iplier found himself at Dark's door, fist raised to knock. Did he really want to face Dark, now? After everything that had happened?

The decision was made for him as the door swung open. 

"Do come in, Doctor," Dark's voice came from within the inky blackness, cloying. 

Dr. Iplier took a breath and stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind him, and he was left in heart-stopping darkness. 

Only for a moment. 

The light flickered on, and there was Dark, impeccable in a suit and tie. Dr. Iplier thought, with a flash, of his own worn scrubs and dirtied hands. Why did Dark have to outdo him at _everything_?

"It's nice to see you, Dark," Dr. Iplier said, shaking himself out of his shock. He meant it-- Dark looked like he went out more, cared enough to take a bath and eat things other than cold pizza. 

Dark saw the Doctor's eyes flick over him, critical, and allowed himself a smile. "You seem well, Doctor."

"So do you." The words were measured, and Dr. Iplier found himself meeting Dark's eye with a challenge. 

"How are you settling in?" Dark beckoned the Doctor further into the room, which was set up like an office-- a shiny black desk, chairs, even the odd potted plant. 

"Very well," the Doctor said, eyeing Dark's room as he sank into one of the armchairs. It was so big, and this was so comfortable-- something was definitely wrong here. 

Dark flashed a smile. "And your, ah, clinic?" He was settled in the chair across from the Doctor, looking altogether too comfortable. 

Dr. Iplier found himself gripping the arms of his chair. "Fine."

An uncomfortable silence. 

"What do you do, here?" Dr. Iplier was smiling with gritted teeth. 

Dark waved a hand, a careless, meticulous movement. Baiting. "Work. I could always use another pair of eyes, Doctor."

"I'm afraid I have my own work to attend to."

"Mm. If you're ever... bored--" Dark's eyes flickered black for a moment, "--you'd be welcome here. I only have two, you see."

"Two eyes?" Dr. Iplier was getting increasingly distressed, watching smoke curl itself around Dark's fingers. 

"Two pairs." A calculated smirk. 

"Ah. Well." 

Dark's aura rang shrilly in the silence. 

"I suppose you have to be getting back to your work."

Dr. Iplier recognized the dismissal and seized it like a lifeline. He leapt to his feet. "Right, sorry for the intrusion." 

"Not at all." Dark stayed in his chair, lazily watching the Doctor stumble to the door. " _Do_ come again, Doctor."

The feeling of a thrown knife about to hit him in the back, the steely click of the lock, and Dr. Iplier was back in the hallway, gasping for air. 

Dark was just as he remembered him, and boy, was that infuriating. 

The Doctor steadied himself against the wall, breathing deeply. He did have to get back to his work, he thought, but it was bitter now that Dark had pointed it out. Maybe he'd make himself a sandwich out of spite. 

Google walked out of the living room, and Dr. Iplier hastily composed himself. "Hey, Google."

"Hello, Doctor." Google drew closer to him, beeping, nodding his head. "How are you?"

"Fine, just fine." Dr. Iplier straightened up to look Google in the eye. What a creepy robot. "How're you doing?"

Google seemed a little taken aback. "A-all programs are functioning n-normally," he stuttered, a slight flush making its way to his synthetic cheeks. 

Dr. Iplier allowed himself to be amused. It was almost cute. "That's good, Google. Have the rest of the Egos settled in okay?"

Seemingly relieved to be changing the subject, the robot responded quickly. "It would appear that Mr.'s Warfstache and Trimmer are at odds with each other, to little ill effect; Darkiplier has, as the Doctor has undoubtably seen, adjusted well; however, I have no data on the remaining Ego."

Dr. Iplier frowned. "What remaining Ego?"

Google pointed silently down the hallway at a closed door that the Doctor had assumed was a spare room, maybe a closet. 

"Would it be okay if... if I said hello?" The Doctor shot a trepidatious glance at the door. Whoever that was, they couldn't be worse than Dark, right?

"As I have no data on the figment, I cannot guarantee your personal safety nor the permissibility of saying 'hello.'" Google beeped a little, frowning. 

"Well, I'll go in anyway. Thanks, Googs."

Dr. Iplier walked away from the android, leaving Google to mouth the nickname to himself, confused. He raised a hand to knock on the door, suddenly on edge. They couldn't be worse than Dark, he repeated to himself. 

_Knock-knock._

No response, only quiet shuffling from inside. Dr. Iplier swallowed his sudden fear. 

_Knock--_

"Come in."

A familiar voice, even though they all had the same voice. Dr. Iplier turned the handle and stepped inside, his heart in his throat. That had sounded like...

The room, once his eyes adjusted, was a swamp of boxes and papers, piled haphazardly into a sort of maze. Flickering candlelight danced off the walls, lined in bookshelves-- empty, for the moment. 

The smell of ink and blood in the air. 

"H-hello?" The Doctor's voice was quieter, more timid than he'd care to admit. Too much hope in his chest, just now. The possibility of seeing an old friend. 

"Ah, Dr. Iplier. It's nice to... meet you."

The Doctor picked his way deeper into the room, finding a desk with a figure bent over it. He recognized the set of his shoulders, the candlelight outlining a familiar bat in the corner...

"I-- Author?" A sudden chill rushed over him. Something was wrong. 

"The Host welcomes you." The figure at the desk turned, backlit by the flame, and it was all Dr. Iplier could do not to scream. 

It was the Author, he was sure of it. The way he held himself, the worn, veined hands, that crooked smile that never reached his eyes--

But the candle illuminated a different person entirely. A light streak in his hair, blond, almost a trick of the light. Slumped shoulders, a coat wrapped tightly around him. Shaking fingers that had once rivaled his own, steady hands. The same crooked smile, but a dirty rag over his eyes. 

A dirty, bloodstained rag. 

A dirty, bloodstained rag, hugging the hollow of his eye sockets. 

The Doctor didn't need to lift the makeshift bandage to know what was under it. 

"Author?" he repeated, disbelieving. 

His old friend shifted uncomfortably, straightening his coat. "The Host would like to welcome the Doctor to his library, despite its state of clutter."

"I don't understand," Dr. Iplier whispered, despite himself. "Your--"

The Author-- no, what did he call himself? The Host?-- stiffened. "Is the Doctor here _for_ something?" There was an edge to his voice that Dr. Iplier had never heard before. 

"I-I--"

"The Host is very busy." It was a dismissal. He turned away, back to his desk. The candle flickered. 

Dr. Iplier was never one to leave well enough alone. He was Mark's Ego, after all. 

He edged closer, seeing the edges of the rag around his friend's head glisten with grime in the light. "What happened, Auth-- Host?" The new name felt strange in his mouth, ill-fitting for the person he'd once known. 

"The Host is busy," he snapped, and the light wavered violently. "The Doctor feels compelled to leave the Host to his work."

It wasn't true until the Host said it-- suddenly, Dr. Iplier found himself backing away quickly. A shiver ran down his spine. There was something else here, some other power, and it was scaring the _shit_ out of him. 

He was at the door when the Host spoke again, quiet. "If the Doctor would like to visit another time, when the Host is not so busy, that would be... acceptable."

"I'd... love to." It came out choked with sentiment. The Author, the Host-- whoever this was, he'd been a friend, once. Maybe again. 

The door slammed shut, and both the Doctor and Host took a breath. Each on their respective sides of the door, they allowed themselves to panic. Too much had changed, too much hadn't changed. They'd come a long way from late nights in a cabin in the woods, and the prospect of revisiting that, now, was heart-stoppingly painful. 

The Host caught his breath, leaning over the desk. He'd never wanted anyone to see him like this, never wanted his friends to compare the Host to the Author. Him, to what he had been. His one friend, the Doctor. 

Dr. Iplier dug his nails into his arms, trying to ground himself. That was the Author. His friend. Eyeless and crying tears of blood. What had hurt him? Who had hurt him?

Who on earth needed another pair of eyes?


End file.
